The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

been easier to start threading with the end of the rope instead of somewhere in the middle, but the end was buried in the tangled coil on the bales and we didn’t have time to untangle it. By threading it from the middle, we would eventually come to the end as the rope uncoiled.
    That was the theory. In practice, when I shoved a length of the rope through the window, the weight of the rope below and above it pulled it back into the barn. Uncle Jeff saw what was happening. He stood on the ladder just below me and held a length of rope up with one hand, so that most of the downward pull was eliminated.
    This enabled me to shove a section of rope through the hole and hold it there with the pressure of my body while I let go with my hand and grabbed it again a foot lower. Then I shoved the next section through. It wasn’t fast, and it certainly wasn’t elegant, but we were making progress.
    After a number of thrusts, enough of the rope was hanging out the window so that its weight kept it from being pulled back inside. But the rope was still a long way above the ground, as I could see when I stuck my head through the hole and looked down. And below the window I saw tall weeds growing, the kind that have protective spines sticking out of the stalks.
    No time to think about that now. The smoke had reached me and was billowing out the window. I started coughing, and everybody below me was coughing, too. We had to get out of the barn, or we would be overcome by smoke inhalation.
    I sped up the process, grabbing the rope at a point below the window and shoving it through. Since I didn’t have to hold it while I grabbed the next section, I fed it through the window faster and faster.
    I was doing this without looking down, so I was surprised when the last few feet of the rope were pulled through the window by the weight of the rope outside. I looked out the window again and saw that the rope was fully extended downward but didn’t reach the ground. I couldn’t tell exactly how far above the ground it stopped, but it was definitely above the nettles.
    I reported this to Uncle Jeff, who was still standing on the ladder just below me.
    “That’s the best we can do,” he said. “We have to get out now. Gary, you go first and prepare to catch the others as they come down.”
    He said this in the voice he would use if I were going down a slide at a playground, although his face looked harried, and he was coughing while trying to hang onto the ladder. I was about to argue that the women should go first. I was especially afraid that my mother and Aunt Dorothy wouldn’t make it out. But then I realized that they would have a better chance if someone were below to help them. And I think my biggest fear was that I would be the only one to get out.
    But there wasn’t even time for Uncle Jeff and me to climb down the ladder to let somebody else go first. I wasn’t ready for what came next, but I would never be. I grabbed the rope and pulled, making sure it was anchored firmly from above. Then I climbed to the top rung of the ladder, holding on to the remains of the window frame.
    I looked down. The height now appeared dizzying, since I was about to have only a rope to keep me from falling. I wouldn’t look down again. The situation was awkward, because I had to grab the rope with both hands while making sure that I didn’t swing inward toward the fire instead of outward. I hooked a leg over the window ledge to hold myself, and then, with as tight a grip as I could manage on the rope, swung the other leg over.
    I was hanging on the rope by my hands, pushed against the side of the barn. I frantically wrapped one foot around the rope and pressed against my foot and the rope with the sole of my other foot. Now I could lower myself slowly, hand over hand, while my feet helped hold my weight. But could the others do that?
    I bumped against the side of the barn as I slid down the rope, but that was a minor irritation. And then my feet ran out of rope. I looked down. I was just above the nettles. I lowered myself using only my hands for another yard, pushed myself away from the barn with my feet, and let go of the rope. The pain as I fell through the nettles was astonishing. I cried out as I hit the ground.
    “Are you all right?”
    It was Kate’s voice, calling from above. Shaking off the pain, I stood up, getting my face, arms, and legs scratched more and more in the process, and said, “I’m okay. Wrap one leg around the rope